


Holly and Hand Grenades

by jebbypal



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jebbypal/pseuds/jebbypal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A holiday vacation to Spain with Fiona doesn't turn out as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holly and Hand Grenades

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meredith44](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=meredith44).



> Thanks for beta work by [livejournal.com profile] halcyon_shift and [livejournal.com profile] mitchy. Also to [livejournal.com profile] sabaceanbabe for listening to me whine about Jingle Bell lyrics. Written for the holiday fic exchange for [winter_deaddrop](http://community.livejournal.com/winter_deaddrop/27450.html)

The thing about being under deep cover as a contract spy – the CIA suddenly expects you to do side missions even though technically you are otherwise occupied. Normally this isn't a problem. But then again, normally my cover doesn't involve playing boyfriend to a gun runner with IRA ties and a lot of protective male relatives.

"This was supposed to be a romantic holiday vacation, Michael," Fi says from behind him as he hangs up his cell.

Michael winces a little at the tone in her voice before carefully arranging his face into a conciliatory smile and turning to face her. Sometimes, he pictures a firing squad in her place when she gets like this. That way, it's not nearly as terrifying. "Fi, it will be. I have to take care of this quick deal with the ETA, and then it will just be you and me and a warm fire, I swear."

"It'll be quicker if I come."

Quicker to explode that is. The last thing Michael needs is for Fi to start training more rebels on their _vacation_. "I don't think my contact will like that," Michael replies as he sets the phone down and starts to get his gear together. "I'll be back tonight at the latest – I probably won't call because the meet is in a cell-free region. Keep the home fires burning?"

She's pouting, but she deigns to ravage him with a particularly cruel kiss before stepping out of the path to the chalet's door. "If you aren't back tonight, I don't think you'll like the nuts I'll roast." This time he winces visibly and doesn't try to hide it from her. As he shuts the door, her smile is the last thing he sees.

* * *

 

Fi decides to occupy her time with shopping while she waits for Michael to return. It's unfortunate that he picked a particularly remote ski village for their holiday as it doesn't take her long to exhaust the potential of all the stores. Sadly, only three small bags of merchandise accompany her. However, she does manage to meet a cute young boy that has acquired some Spanish military artillery and is looking to unload them. She agrees to fence them. If Michael doesn't end up needing them for his new ETA clients, she can always make a pretty penny on them elsewhere. Artillery, almost as good a gift as diamonds in her opinion.

As she hunts for the room key, Fi hears the insistent chirping of a cell phone inside the room. She dashes for it as soon as she gets in, worried that it might be Michael in a pickle. He's really quite good at tactical awareness, but he has a horrible tendency to always "go it alone". Of course, they met when she saved him on one of those "go it alone" missions, so she shouldn't complain too much.

"Michael, what's –"

"Who is this?" a strange man answers.

"Fiona," she answers warily.

"Listen, sweetcheeks, where's Westen? Tell me he hasn't left yet."

_Westen?_ "He has, but I'm about to go and meet him. He doesn't have cell service at the meet location."

"Goddamn Interpol and never waiting till they get all the intel. Fine, get there fast. It's a setup. The ETA knows he's worked with the CIA and Interpol in the past and they've decided to make sure he doesn't have a merry Christmas in return for some particularly high grade explosives from Hezbollah," the man explains. "And after he survives, tell him I expect a lot of single-malt scotch in return for saving his ass from bad international intel. Again."

"I'll do that-" Fi quickly checks the caller ID, "Sam. Thanks for the intel."

Westen. Interpol. CIA. Suddenly, Fi wonders if anything that Michael has told her is true. The worst part is she wouldn't have cared if Michael McBride had introduced himself as an international spy for hire. But she's never enjoyed being lied to.

She grabs her own cell and dials a number. "Raoul, I need some of your merchandise now instead of later."

* * *

 

_ Oddly, cold and muddy doesn't bother me. Anything that is different from Miami isn't necessarily a bad thing. However, cold, muddy, and wet are the worst things in the world when you're dodging sniper fire. I prefer traction under my feet and under my tires. But then, snipers never ask me._

"Can't we talk about this?" Michael screams as he abandons his grenade fragged tree and runs to the cover of a sturdier boulder. The only answer he receives is more rifle fire and a grenade to the right of the boulder. Winded, he catches his breath while banging his head back into the boulder in time with his cursing. "Never, ever, ever take a last minute Interpol assignment. Especially not with a paramilitary group that you have NO contacts with, you goddamn idiot."

On the last head bang, he notices that the weapon fire has died off some. "Oh no you don't! I'm not paying for that rental," he promises before he sets of sprinting in a zigzag pattern for the only means of vehicular escape in a ten mile radius.

* * *

 

When Michael parks in front of the chalet he's sharing with Fi, he takes a moment to himself. His head drops onto the steering wheel and his mind flicks through possible explanations for both his current state and that of the car rental that now looks like it spent some quality time in Somalia during the rainy season of the last civil war. Nothing comes to him though, so he exits the car and makes his way to the chalet. His key isn't even in the lock before the door opens.

"Michael!" Fi's eyes are wide at the site of him.

"I'm fine, Fiona. Just wet, cold, muddy, and in serious need of hot water. And a lot of alcohol."

She pulls him inside. "Get out of those clothes while I start the shower."

"I meant hot water, alone, Fi."

"As if I want to shower with you looking like that."

Michael finds he's too tired to mention the times that she hasn't particularly cared what state either of them were in. Hell, once he still had a knife sticking out of his calf when she started mauling him. Sometimes, you just have to accept small favors where you find them.

The shower spray is probably only just above tepid, but it feels scalding to his raw and frozen skin. He grits his teeth in pain as the water washes the small gritty shrapnel out of his cheek and his arms. Somehow, he'd managed to not get shot directly.

He stays in the spray until it starts to go cold before climbing out. Unsurprisingly, Fi didn't pull out any clean clothes for him to change into. He hopes to convince her that all he wants to do is collapse. "Yeah, right, like that's going to happen."

He opens the door to the bedroom and stops dead. "Fi - what's going on?" Michael asks slowly as he tightens the towel around his waist. Suddenly, Fiona's refusal to shower with his muddy, bloody self earlier is starting to look a lot more suspicious in light of the scene in front of him.

Fi's grin only made him more nervous. "Nothing, Michael. Why do you ask?"

Michael's eyes track from her face, to her hand and then back again. "Just curious as to what you're holding." And what exactly he's done to deserve it.

Fi looks at her hand as if she's never seen what she's holding before. "Oh, that. It's a grenade, Michael. You know all about those, right?"

As always, Michael knows exactly where every exit is. And right now, Fi, and the grenade, stand directly between him and every single one. Normally, this would be something he'd expect to be rescuing Sam from, not living through. Emphasis on the living. "Just curious - it's disarmed, right? 'Cause those are my absolute favorite," he says with an almost playful smile.

Fi's face falls. "Well, that's too bad. Because live grenades are what I give to my very best friends. At least the ones that lie to me every second that I've ever known them."

Michael is really starting to regret telling his new "girlfriend" that they could spend the holiday together. Hell, a family holiday that included his dad was starting to look good in comparison. "Fi, darling, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Fiona's face goes completely blank and cold. Her empty hand reaches into the dresser drawer beside her and tosses his cell phone to him. "Sam called to tell you the ETA meet was an ambush."

The phone she tossed him is his _business_ phone. The one he always keeps with him. Except when Interpol suddenly sends him off into the middle of the Basque boonies, where he knows he won't have reception and figures one less thing to trip him up is better. Sam's timing has never been good, but it's never been this bad either.

"You answered my phone."

"I didn't realize it was private. And I thought you might be calling for help," Fi answers. Because yes, if he'd only made sure she was at his side every second of every day, things like this wouldn't happen. Instead, he'd probably blow his brains out from all the intimacy. There were certain security agencies around the world that would give millions to know how easy it was to break Michael Westen.

"Exactly how many names do you have, Mr. Westen?" Fi asks as she shifts the grenade to her other hand.

He hears the accusation under the question. _How many other girlfriends do you have?_

"At the moment? I have about five other identities that I can grab at any given time. Is that really what you want to know, Fi?" Shit, that was not the right thing to say and he can tell immediately that she's about to get throwing mad. "Look, I'm sorry you found out this way, but it's not something that's easy to explain to someone who's not in the business. Not everything I've said has been a lie."

"And us?" she demands. "Or was I just convenient to your Interpol masters?"

"I don't work like that," he denies. "Not usually. I swear. I just needed some of your contacts for a job. But I wasn't –"

"You weren't what? Using me? Leading me on? Playing with me? Choose your words carefully, Michael. Oh wait, I guess you always do. Otherwise the lies wouldn't be quite so skillful."

By now, Michael's all but forgotten the grenade. He doesn't know how, or even when, but he's realized that losing Fi like this will hurt much more than whatever damage the grenade inflicts.

He lays the phone down and walks closer to Fi. In her anger, she doesn't even try to gain any distance from what would be the blast zone if she does throw the grenade at him. "At first, yes. You were an asset. But then you weren't and I didn't know how to tell you without tearing everything we had apart. But it wasn't all lies. Especially not this." With that, he closes the distance and pulls her into a kiss, purposely ignoring the hand holding the live grenade.

At first, she tries to push away while keeping grenade held away from her body, but he doesn't give up. He drops the towel completely and puts both his hands into remembering every single thing that he's learned about Fi's body in the past six months. She starts to give in and return the kiss and he goes with it and enjoys the moment.

**Smack**.

The slap hurts and Fi isn't careful with her nails as she withdraws, opening up more wounds on his face. But she doesn't move away either.

"I guess I deserved that."

He feels her knee move, but between the chill in the room stiffening his muscles, her speed, and their proximity, he can't do more than control the angle with which it slams into his groin. His weight falls on her as the pain envelops him, but she just pushes him off and watches as he slides off the bed.

"And maybe that," he squeaks.

Now painfully aware that Fiona has decided to punish rather than immediately kill him, he's focused on the danger. As her stiletto comes toward him, he grabs for her other leg and brings her to the floor with a controlled drop. He's relieved to see she still has a firm grip on the grenade.

The moment of distraction is enough for her to get the upper hand and pin him.

"A bit of an unfair fight here with your little friend," Michael observes.

Fi's _smile_ sends chills down Michael's spine even as other parts of him try to crawl up inside his body. "Just keep it in mind during the interrogation. If you're entirely truthful, you'll have _nothing_ to worry about."

* * *

 

_Dashing through the mud,  
Dodging sniper fire,  
Screaming all the way!  
Wet and soggy Mike retreats  
To a safe house warm and neat._

Oh jingle bells  
Shotgun shells  
Fi's got a grenade  
What fun it is for Mike to   
prevent the explosion.

An hour or two ago,  
Sam spilled the beans  
And Fi found out Mike's name wasn't Green.  
Now Misfortune is his lot  
And groveling is the only option he's got.

Oh jingle bells  
Shotgun shells  
Fi's got a grenade  
What fun it is for Mike to   
Prevent the explosion.

 

Jingle Bells, Shotgun Shells,  
Fi's got a grenade!


End file.
